


Come the Devil

by jetblackmirror (orphan_account)



Category: Green Day, My Chemical Romance, The Network
Genre: M/M, Mentioned Het, Mentioned Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-11
Updated: 2007-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-16 02:48:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/jetblackmirror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The temptation of demons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lushotology

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Doppelganger](http://community.livejournal.com/mychemicaltest/74492.html#cutid1) challenge over at [mychemicaltest](http://www.livejournal.com/users/mychemicaltest/). Has been slightly revised from its [original form](http://community.livejournal.com/mychemicaltest/78233.html).
> 
> Takes place when My Chem toured with Green Day (early 2005). The Black Parade Frontman is not blonde!Gerard.

"It is a revenge the devil sometimes takes upon the virtuous,  
that he entraps them by the force of the very passion they have suppressed and think themselves superior to."  
-George Santayana

 

Gerard couldn't sleep.

It wasn't a new thing for him. Or unfamiliar. Or strange. He rarely slept much. Six hours if he were lucky. His mind would roam, replaying the things from the day. How the crowd looked at the show. How gross that BLT on rye had tasted. The exact number of Coke Zeros he'd drank before nearly imploding from caffeine. What Frank's hair had felt like as he'd helped him wrangle it into punk rock godliness.

This was different. This was the kind of non sleep. The kind of Insomnia. The kind of lying in bed and please oh please god I know we haven't talked in a while but please let me sleep. The kind of dry tongued, red eyed, wakefulness he'd felt when he was first getting clean.

Things kept swishing in the peripheral. In the corners of his vision that Frank and Ray often occupied. This was not a blur of red and black X's. Not a glimpse of hair like wool. Not even the light glinting off Mikey's glasses. It was bits of rust. Flashes of carmine. Black and white tabby stripes.

Gerard let his eyes open.

There, perched on the end of his bed, like a feral cat, was a creature only _his_ subconscious could come up with. Clad in slick red vinyl. A torn knit mask covering his head.

"Shit. I really have gone crazy."

There was a giggle. Familiar and tainted. A twisted nightmare of something from his waking hours. The bed shifted. The creature moved. There was a swish, a flash of a neatly pointed tail. And Gerard felt a dull grip of terror clench his heart.

"Get the fuck away from me. I'm not in the mood for visions."

He was about to turn over. Turn away from the vision, the creeping crawler. Close his eyes and think about Bob's thumbs at the back of his neck, rubbing out a knot that simply would not budge. He wanted to turn over, but the being was suddenly crouched over him. Gloved hands were at either side of his head. Strong knees pinched at his hips. Sharp olive eyes holding his own still. His limbs felt on fire, and he wondered briefly if he were feverish.

"Billie Joe?"

Lips were pressed against his, and the heady scent of spice flooded his senses. He tried to move, to smack at the being that looked so familiar. That looked so alien. The hands were at his wrists, pinning his arms to the bed. The creature's mouth opened against his. Pried his own lips apart.

A rush of something warm washed over his tongue. Something familiar and heady and oh please I want more please let me have more just a taste more please I'll do anything for more please _god._

Gerard tore his mouth away. Yanked his head to the side. Gasped. Gagged. Tried to spit. Tried to vomit but it was too late. He could feel the lingering burn within his throat.

"You're a washed up artist."

"Fuck you."

Gerard shifted beneath the man, beneath the Billie Joe copycat phantom devil. Tried to rip his arms free. Get a leg up under him. Spit in his face as he rolled them to reverse.

"You're a washed up artist. A coke addicted pussy. A prodigal son to the church of Lushotology."

One slick knee was pressed firmly between Gerard's legs and he twitched at the contact. This was unwanted. Unprompted. Unneeded. He wanted this even less than he had wanted the rum that had lit a fire in his throat. That now worked its way through his veins.

"Since the day I was born I have lived and breathed and bled music. And you think you can just waltz in and rob me of my crown?"

The knee pressed harder. Gerard's teeth almost sliced his own lip in half. He could taste copper and salt. Blood. The acrid washing away the sweet and the spice.

"I'm the fucking future."


	2. Thanatophilia

Billie Joe was dead to the fucking world.

He never had trouble sleeping. Not really. Unless something was wrong at home or one of his bandmates was sick or he was sexually frustrated - though a bit of the Right hand-a-rama usually fixed that just fine - or he'd fucked up a song or he'd just had another one of those talks with Gerard.

Okay, so Billie Joe didn't sleep like a lump on a log terribly often, but give him a fucking break. The king of punk rock had a lot on his goddamn plate.

He was dreaming of Adrienne. Of her dreads between his fingers. Of her lips on his neck. Of her breasts against his chest. She was moving with him, and they were high and giggling, and it was sweet and good and everything he missed about home. Minus the boys.

"Get up, motherfucker. You're supposed to be awake."

The voice was not hers. It was masculine and nasally and faintly accented in a way that was not the Bay. It was not Mike's or Tré's. It was not Jason's. He clung to his dream. To his wife's sweet curves and the look of love in her eyes.

"I said get the fuck up. Now. Before you come all over the sheets."

Billie Joe groaned, torn from his dream and rip shit fucking pissed. He tried to sit up but his limbs were a tangled mess. Foreign bedding wrapped like a noose around his neck. Holding his limbs to the hard mattress. He blinked his eyes open. Clouded with sleep and hung over. His headache coming to a thundering reality.

"No more sweet dreams, petite prince."

He looked around. Searched for the source of the voice that he then recognized. Tainted. But not unknown. A figure stood beside the bed. Leaning casually against the wall. Arms crossed over a chest that looked like ribs. Over black cloth and glittering silver buttons.

"What the fuck?"

The figure smirked. A sardonic grin pulling his pale lips taught, sending a sharp chill through Billie Joe's veins. The man's cheeks were hollow and gaunt, the arch of bones acutely pronounced. His eyes were sunken. Gold shimmering faintly from pits of black.

"When did you cut your hair?"

The specter laughed, high and slick. The sound made him want to puke. Made him want to take back every single nice thing he had ever said about the anti-social artist and his morbid little band. Made him want to kick their virgin asses all the way back to dirty little Jersey.

"Old man, what have you done with your life?"

He tried to shift again, tried to free himself from his linen prison. A soft growl rumbling in his chest. He wasn't going to be berated by some upstart kid with a creepy fetish for looking like death.

"What have you done with your life?"

"Shut the fuck up, prick."

The figure had moved. Was now crouching on the side of his bed, balancing on the edge. His eyes ever staring. A leather clad hand reached up, cupped his cheek. A neatly painted thumb brushing ice under his eye.

"You're an aging punk who's lost his spark. An old lion waiting to die. Waiting for the future to take him down in primal slaughter."

Billie Joe shook his head, yanked his face away from the cold touch. Tried to roll away. Tried to jump up and punch the fucker in his smirking face. Tried to kick and lash and scream.

"Gerard, I'm fucking warning you."

The cool touch of something wet brushed against his temple. Cracked lips kissing lightly at the edge of his hair. A slick hand sliding into his curls. Nails dragging faintly over his scalp. A shudder ran down Billie Joe's spine.

"The king is dead. Long live the king"

Billie Joe could feel the early stages of a panic attack forming. The first time in years. Since his drunken sabbatical.

"I'm a fucking legend."

**Author's Note:**

> 


End file.
